Snow, Candlelight and Christmas Dinner
by Tanista2
Summary: Sherlock and John, walking through London one snowy Christmas Eve, come across a grey-haired lady sitting alone by candlelight.


All of London was white that evening in late December, thanks to an unexpected blizzard. Anyone with a shred of common sense had long ago retired behind tightly shuttered doors- where light, warmth and holiday cheer were to be had in abundance- or at the very least to the nearest available shelter away from the bitter cold.

Two men- neither of whom, it could honestly be said, were really in possession of much common sense to begin with- trudged through the deserted snowy streets. One had dark unruly curls and cool ice-blue eyes, his tall, lean frame wrapped in a dark woolen coat and blue scarf. His shorter companion, with blond hair and deep indigo eyes, pulled his own dark coat- possessing a more military cut befitting its owner- tighter around him, glancing at all the people indoors laughing, eating and carrying on in the spirit of the season.

"Looks like everyone's having a jolly Christmas," he noted.

"Indeed," sniffed the taller man. "The time of year for socially-approved displays of excess sentiment."

"Tell me again why _we're_ out in this bloody awful weather, Sherlock?"

"It's an experiment, John. With no vehicles about to hinder progress I'm finally able to document how long it takes one to traverse through the city entirely on foot."

"With the snow being as deep as it is? Not very easily, I shouldn't wonder." John shivered. "Just admit it, already. We're out here- cold, tired and hungry- because you didn't want to attend your brother's Christmas party."

Sherlock huffed. "A tedious occasion, full of government employees as fat as he is, engaging in pointless conversation and filling their bellies with food. Dull."

"Filling their bellies indeed. Mycroft promised there would be roast goose, stuffing with sage and onion, cherry and mincemeat pies." John clutched at his middle. "My stomach hurts just from thinking about it. Have you got anything to eat in your pockets? All I've got is a roll from breakfast and a packet of crisps."

Sherlock dug in the pockets of the Belstaff. "Some biscuits, and bit of cheese I was planning to keep in there as an experiment on growing mold."

"Brilliant. We've got ourselves a proper feast, then. Now all we have to do is find somewhere to stop for a breather."

Turning a corner, they noticed every window on the street save but one was brightly lit. "Wonder what's going on there," said John, pointing to the dark building. "Do you think anyone's home?"

They approached the window. "Observe, John, it's not completely dark. There's candlelight, and someone inside."

Within the window both men could make out a grey-haired lady sitting at a kitchen table bare of any food, tears in her eyes. "How dreadful. Sherlock, she's all alone in there. It's a bit not good for that to happen at Christmas, don't you think? We should do something."

The detective huffed irritably- grumbling about how the interruption would ruin his calculations- but followed the blogger to the door, black with _221B_ in brass. John tapped on the door with the brass knocker directly below the address. Presently they heard a shuffling sound, and the door opened. "Hello?" the grey-haired lady inquired. "How may I help you?"

"I'm John and this is Sherlock. And we're here to help _you._ May we come in?"

"I'm Mrs. Hudson. I don't know why you would want to, though. I haven't got any food for Christmas dinner."

"Oh, that's quite all right. We do." John held out the roll and bag of crisps, then glared pointedly at Sherlock, who frowned but pulled out his cheese and biscuits."Would you like to share it with us?"

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. "How kind of you. Do come inside, then." She led them through the darkened rooms. "It's just me here all alone. My husband's run off to America; he said he couldn't stand another English winter. I fear he's not coming back anytime soon."

"We can find him for you, though. If you want." said John. "Sherlock here is a detective. He can find anyone."

"Is he now? How delightful. What would you take in payment? I'm afraid to admit I don't have much money right now."

"Well, since it's Christmas and you're all by yourself we couldn't possibly accept-"

Sherlock, who had been examining his surroundings, smartly turned and looked down at the older woman with a not unkind smile. "Currently you do not have any tenants, nor are you advertising for any yet. Everything is in good condition except for a slight issue with rats, but easily taken care of with judiciously-placed traps. Your husband left you in debt, and neglected to mention there are collectors wanting you to sell the house and garnish the proceeds for themselves. But there is a way out of it if you will allow us to locate your husband- he's living in Florida, by the way- and force him to return the money he embezzled from the company he recently retired from. You will also have some additional income if you allow John and I to move into the upstairs flat, which has two bedrooms and a spacious kitchen in which I can perform my experiments more adequately than in our current location. Is that acceptable?"

She blinked, taken aback by the rapid-fire delivery of his deductions. "Oh! Yes, that's quite all right. I mean, I suppose so. But how did you know-"

John interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Never mind, Mrs. Hudson. That's how his mind works, making observations and deductions. Just trust me that when he says he'll find your husband he'll certainly do his best. As for moving in," glancing at Sherlock, "we'll discuss that later. But yeah, I think we're taking your case."

"Indeed," said Sherlock with a nod. "Shouldn't be dull."

Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, how wonderful! You're both such dears; thank you so much. You must call me Martha, then." She turned to a nearby cupboard, pulling out a bottle of wine and three glasses. "This is the last drop of wine I've got, but you are welcome to share it with me for dinner."

John divided the food into thirds while she poured. As they sat down to their meager dinner Martha suddenly stood and raised her glass. "A toast to everyone's Christmas. But especially," smiling warmly at the two men unexpectedly sharing the holiday with her, "yours and mine, gentlemen."

"Hear, hear," said John, raising his glass in salute. "Happy Christmas."

"A sentimental toast," noted Sherlock as he reached for a biscuit. "But a good one nonetheless."

In that snowed-in English city one Christmas Eve- with every door closed tight against the cold- no one could be said to have had a happier holiday than the detective, his blogger and the grey-haired lady in 221B Baker Street. They ate dinner by candlelight, talked and laughed throughout the night, poor in material goods but rich in the spirit of the season.

* * *

 _You can find the song "Christmas Dinner", by the folk group Peter, Paul and Mary, on YouTube._

 _Happy Holidays to everyone! May the joy, warmth and peace of the season stay with you and your loved ones throughout the coming year._


End file.
